The Stone Wife

by Peter Lovesey

  “Now I see where you’re going,” Bernie said. “No, mate, leave me out of it. The first I heard about that thing was what I read in the paper after Gildersleeve was shot.”

  Angry—she couldn’t disguise it—to be grounded, stuck in the CID room for the morning when a suspect was being interviewed not far away, Ingeborg was at her desk waiting for phone calls. They’d brought in the whiteboard and lots of photos and called it the incident room as if it was all action here, but who were they kidding? This remained the same old place where she spent far too much time sitting on her butt. After her undercover work, research on the phone was safe and boring. To say she was unhappy with Diamond was an understatement. For one thing she suspected he’d invented this task as a time-filler for her. He’d talked blithely about having a hunch. Jesus Christ, she thought, if she’d had the brass to mention a hunch, he’d have shot her down in flames. She’d heard him before going on about women’s intuition. And for another thing, she deserved to be in the front line after all she’d done.

  In the last hour she’d put out feelers about the drawing of Thomas Chaucer and the former art dealers Matlock and Russell and now she was waiting for various journalist contacts to get back to her. John Leaman was with her, as smug as the cat who had finished the cream. She didn’t need reminding that he’d joined the boss on the outing to Reading.

  “Any joy?” he asked. Not the best choice of words.

  “On the phone, you mean? No. I’m waiting for someone to call back.”

  “Is this just a red herring?”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” she said.

  “He’s losing confidence,” Leaman said. “He’s got three people firmly in the frame—Dr. Poke, Monica Gildersleeve and Bernie Wefers—and he hasn’t nailed one of them yet. The more he questions them, the more confused he gets.”

  “Is that why he’s having hunches, do you reckon?”

  “Desperation, isn’t it?”

  She’d heard John Leaman in this vein before. There was always a point in an investigation when he rubbished all the theories. Normally, she wouldn’t have listened, but this morning his pessimism chimed in with her bolshie mood.

  “What about forensics?” she said. “Won’t they come up with something?”

  “We won’t get much more from them. We know the gun that fired the fatal shot was probably a Webley, but we haven’t recovered it yet. The gunmen left no traces and they were all wearing balaclavas and rubber gloves. What does he think—that one of his prime suspects dressed up in a balaclava—or all three?”

  “There were two Webleys in Nathan’s collection. I saw them.”

  “Pity you didn’t bring them back with you.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Tough.”

  Leaman seemed to regard that as the last word. Ingeborg had no desire to explain the difficulties of her mission to old misery guts, so they each returned to their computer screen and silence—until her phone beeped.

  “Inge? This is Klaus.”

  Klaus Harting, one-time arts correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

  “Good to speak again,” Ingeborg said.

  “Sergeant Smith, the switchboard said. So the change of job worked out for you.”

  “Most days, yes. How is it with you?”

  “The same. I’ve done some rooting around, without much success. Whoever was selling the drawing you mentioned—of Thomas Chaucer—went to some trouble to stay anonymous. I can tell you it was withdrawn from sale when the value plummeted because it wasn’t of Geoffrey Chaucer. The National Portrait Gallery were willing to buy it at a much reduced but not unreasonable price—Thomas being a significant man in the fifteenth century, if not quite a celebrity—but the seller refused to negotiate and the drawing hasn’t been heard of since.”

  “Waiting for a more favourable time to sell?”

  “Very likely. If it was billed as the main item in a new auction of historical portraits, it might do better. After the disappointment that it wasn’t the poet, there was the feeling it was second-rate.”

  “But it hasn’t come up for sale yet? Is it still with the original seller?”

  “The mystery man—or woman. I presume so.”

  “Did you find out any more about Matlock and Russell?”

  “The dealers. They ceased trading in two-thousand and five, I’m afraid. It was an old-established firm based in the West Country.”

  “Where I am,” Ingeborg said.

  “The kingpin was a guy called Austen Chalk. When he died, the firm died with him.”

  “Where in the West Country?”

  “Bath. They had premises in Broad Street. It’s probably selling fish and chips these days.”

  She was already on her feet. “I’ll find out. Klaus, you’re a star.”

  Fish and chips? Unlikely. Broad Street specialised in antiques, crafts, upmarket homeware, fashion and, of course, public houses. The best thing about it this morning was that Ingeborg could walk there in five minutes.

  Out of the police station and with a mission in mind, she felt better already. The sun was out, turning the paleness of the stonework a richer cream and giving the colourful shop fronts more pizzazz. Broad Street has no desire to compete with the formal elegance of its neighbour, Milsom Street. Not particularly broad except in style, it caters for the independent-minded, some of whom might not object to being called broads.

  The shop once owned by Matlock and Russell had changed hands at least twice to Ingeborg’s knowledge and was now selling ethnic clothing, so she had no great hope that the present incumbents would know anyone who had worked there. But she knew of a gallery long established in Broad Street called Mary Cruz and decided to try there.

  The assistant she spoke to had no memory of Matlock and Russell, but in the street outside someone tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing you in there. I take an interest in art and I remember the gallery you were asking about, long since gone, I’m afraid.”

  “I know,” Ingeborg said. “That’s my problem.”

  “A Mr. Chalk managed it, but he died.”

  “So I heard.”

  “However, he had an assistant, who did all the paperwork, a Miss Brie. We used to call them Chalk and Cheese, for obvious reasons. That’s how I remember her name. She’s still living here. I’ve seen her about.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid.”

  Rather than returning to Manvers Street to look up Miss Brie’s address, Ingeborg called in at the library. An assistant at a gallery must surely have had an interest in reading. If not, it was likely she would be on the electoral register, which they kept there.

  The librarian didn’t need to consult the records. “We all know Miss Brie,” she said with a faint smile. “She’s often in, a very observant lady.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Whenever she returns a book, she supplies us with a handwritten report on it. She lets us know of any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes or unsuitable language. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about it. Books are full of mistakes. If it isn’t the author’s fault, it’s the publisher’s or the printer’s. We’ve tried explaining, but she doesn’t give up.”

  “You have her address, then?”

  “Always at the top of her report. Mon Repos, Saville Row, Bath. She’s a bit old-fashioned, so she leaves off the postcode.”

  Mon Repos wasn’t exactly modern either. “Saville Row is the alleyway behind the Assembly rooms, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but Miss Brie wouldn’t put it like that. She’s proud of the address, even though it’s over a shop.”

  Ingeborg wasn’t discouraged by what she’d learned so far. A punctilious woman was likely to remember the clients she’d met at Matlock and Russell. With Miss Brie’s cooperation this phase of the investigation ought to be concluded shortly. Diamond’s shocked face would brighten up the day.

  She toile
d to the top of Broad Street, across George Street, through Bartlett Street and on to Saville Row, uphill all the way. Anyone living here and regularly borrowing books from the library would need to be fit.

  A black door squeezed between two shops had a card set into a metal frame with the legend: Mon Repos, press bell and take stairs to first floor.

  She did as she was asked. The stairs were unlit and uncarpeted. At the top, a second card advised: Mon Repos, privacy please, no free newspapers, no uninvited callers.

  Sorry, Ingeborg silently said, but this uninvited caller isn’t going away. She rang the bell.

  A delay of half a minute wasn’t promising. She looked up and about her and was reassured that it was nothing personal. A lady who hadn’t yet entered the age of postcodes was unlikely to be equipped with CCTV.

  Then there were footsteps and the door opened a fraction. Ingeborg could just about make out a face not far above the level of the safety chain. Nothing was said. She had a suspicion that the door was about to be slammed shut, so she put her foot against it and said, “Miss Brie, I’m Ingeborg Smith, from Bath police. May I come in?”

  “Is something the matter?” a voice suitable for a National Trust guide (but not so welcoming) asked.

  “It’s all right. I just need your help.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Not at all.” She pressed her ID close to the gap. “It would be easier if you let me in.”

  The sound of the chain being released was encouraging. The gap widened and Ingeborg looked with awe at Miss Brie, so close to being a stick insect that she might have squeezed through the door with the chain still in place. A hint of eau de cologne was left in her wake as she led the way through a small entrance hall into a sitting room that could have been an interior from a 1930s René Clair film, with lace edging everywhere, on the curtains, the lampshades, the tablecloth, the antimacassars and over the bird cage. Now that she was seated, ankles crossed, tiny hands resting in her lap, the top of a lace petticoat showed at the divide of her white blouse. She was at least seventy and probably half blind if the way she applied her lipstick was anything to go by.

  “I do hope you’re not here to sell me something,” she said, having waved Ingeborg to the only other armchair.

  “Not at all. I’m hoping you can tell me a little about Matlock and Russell. You worked there, I understand.”

  “For twenty-seven years, typing, filing and occasionally showing people round.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until the manager, Mr. Chalk, decided to retire and died within a matter of days. That was two-thousand and five. It was a difficult time. People weren’t buying so much. Has there been an art theft?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but it’s an item of art I would like to ask you about, a fourteenth century drawing that turned out to be of Thomas Chaucer.”

  “I remember. It was towards the end of my time there.”

  “Two-thousand and four, I believe.”

  “You really are well briefed. Would you join me in a preprandial glass of Courvoisier?”

  Not while on duty, Ingeborg realised she ought to say. A lager top would go down a treat, she was tempted to say. “How kind—I’d love to,” was what she actually said. Warming up the witness was a sensible move, even if she wasn’t quite certain what she was letting herself in for.

  Two balloon glasses were produced and she remembered what Courvoisier was. “I was born and brought up in France,” Miss Brie volunteered as she poured generously from a cut glass decanter. She went on to open a tin of biscuits and arrange some on a Limoges plate that looked as if it, too, was made of lace. This was evidently a daily ritual. “I do insist that you have a Bath Oliver with it. I’ve survived on them for most of my adult life.”

  “They’re hard to find now,” Ingeborg said, taking one, a hard, bland version of a cream cracker.

  “Not if you know where to shop. It’s a well kept secret.”

  “Are you going to share it with me?”

  “Certainly not. A secret shared is a secret lost.”

  This was not promising. “We were speaking about the Thomas Chaucer drawing,” Ingeborg prompted her.

  “I remember because it was so unusual. You don’t see much pen and ink work from such an early period.”

  “I believe it was first thought to be of the poet, his father.”

  “The seller firmly believed so. We kept an open mind and insisted it was authenticated by an expert, a professor who made Chaucer a life study.”

  “John Gildersleeve.”

  “Correct.”

  “Unfortunately, he was shot a short while ago.”

  “I heard on the radio. A dreadful incident. Is this why you’re here?”

  “Indirectly, getting background information.”

  Miss Brie took a long sip of brandy and began to talk more freely. “When the professor recognised the subject as Thomas, he saved us all, and not least our client—who wasn’t best pleased at the time—from a professional faux pas. Imagine the embarrassment if it had been sold to the nation for a fortune and later turned out to have been incorrectly identified.”

  “Who was the client?” Ingeborg asked, and immediately saw from Miss Brie’s eyes that she’d asked one brandy too soon.

  “I can’t tell you that. We had an anonymity clause.”

  “But it’s history now. You’re not in business any longer.”

  “I have my standards, dear.”

  “It’s become a police matter now. It’s gone past personal ethics. We’re investigating the professor’s death.”

  Miss Brie smiled. “You don’t scare me in the least. My parents stood up to the Gestapo. I’m unlikely to be bullied into submission by an English lady policeman.”

  “I’m not here to bully you.”

  “And I’m not betraying a confidence. Not now. Not ever.”

  “That is a disappointment. And Mr. Chalk is dead?”

  “He wouldn’t have told you, either.”

  “But the client is still with us?”

  Miss Brie chose not to answer and emphasised it by tilting her little chin a fraction higher.

  Ingeborg said, “If the client was also dead, there’d be no reason to keep this up.”

  Miss Brie said, “Are you secretly recording this?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “Even if you leave a hidden microphone here, you won’t catch me out. I’m not going to make a phone call the minute you leave.”

  “There’s no question of hidden mikes.”

  “I’m sober, you know. Being French, I can take brandy like water.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything underhanded,” Ingeborg said, setting aside the fact that she’d only just returned from an undercover mission. “I believe in appealing to people’s public spirit. I wonder if I can persuade you that there’s a higher morality at stake here. For everyone’s sake we need to catch the person who shot the professor before there’s another shooting.”

  Miss Brie swirled the brandy and looked over the glass. “All I will say is this. Our client couldn’t possibly have fired the shot.”

  “Why do you say that? How do you know?”

  “You can go on all afternoon trying to trick me, Sergeant Smith. It won’t succeed. I’m holding fast to my principles, even in a world that I hardly recognise any more.”

  Half an hour later, Ingeborg realised that the old lady was right. She would no more get the name of the client than she would learn where to buy Bath Olivers. And after several top-ups from the decanter, she was starting to fear that she, too, wouldn’t recognise the world any more.

  30

  This lunchtime three homeless men known to each other as Shakes, One-Eye and Junior were sharing a single can of Red Bull under a horse chestnut tree near the mortuary chapel in Brunswick Cemetery in the St. Paul’s district. Not one of Bristol’s most salubrious public spaces, it was still intended for public use. The gravestones had been moved to the
edges except for a few raised tombs and most of it was grassed over and mown. As an amenity it was not much used, for all the good intentions of the planners. Razor wire fencing along the edges to protect the neighbouring buildings didn’t help and neither did the fact that the cemetery was limited in access. To get in, you had to come through a private car park in Wilder Street. Most locals regarded the place as unsafe.

  The homeless men weren’t troubled. They would remain in the cemetery for hours yet. A short walk away was the night shelter in Little Bishop Street, run by the Julian Trust. Getting one of the eighteen beds in the dormitory was a lottery considering that eighty to a hundred men turned up each night for the free dinner at 9:30 P.M., but obviously you needed to turn up at the door to make any sort of claim.

  Shakes was the only one of the three who had so far enjoyed a night in the Julian and it gave him extra status. “I wouldn’t say it’s the Ritz,” he was telling the others. “You wouldn’t have to share with seventeen others at the Ritz, but they do your laundry while you’re kipping and it’s ready for you in the morning. There’s a proper toilet and a shower and all.”

  “What about breakfast?” One-Eye asked. “Do you get that in bed?” It was meant in fun and he may have winked. It was impossible to tell.

  “No, mate. You have to get up for that, and if you want it, you have to be in the dining room by six thirty.”

  “That’s early,” Junior said. “I’d rather stop in bed.”

  “They kick you out at seven thirty anyway.”

  Junior shook his head. “Definitely not for me. I’ll stick with the underpass.”

  “They ought to make you a special case,” One-Eye said as he handed the can to Junior.

  The young man took this as sympathy and looked pleased. “Why?”

  “You could do with the laundry. You really stink.”

  “No more than you.”

  “Mine’s honest sweat. Yours is piss and puke. Doesn’t he stink of piss and puke, Shakes?”

  “Could be where we’re sitting,” Shakes said. “You never know who’s been here.”